


we deserve to know light

by cathly



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, both of the literal and the metaphorical variety, the author just really has a thing for characters taking off each other's armor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 15:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18719641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathly/pseuds/cathly
Summary: She turns towards Ser Jaime and finds him standing just inside the room, his gaze, empty and haunted, trained on the open window and the night still pouring in. Brienne closes the window first, locking the shutters firmly in place, and then stirs the fire back to life until it’s sparkling again. The room is eerily quiet now, but it’s brighter, too, shadows crawling back beneath the table and beneath the bed, nearly out of sight.*(Or: Brienne and Jaime, right after the battle of Winterfell.)





	we deserve to know light

**Author's Note:**

> The title and the quote are from "Sawdust and Diamonds" by Joanna Newsom. English is not my first language. I wish I had more time to polish this up, but I really don't - I apologize for that. If you'd like, come visit me at my personal [tumblr hell com](http://cathly.tumblr.com).

*

 

so enough of this terror

we deserve to know light

and grow evermore lighter and lighter

 

*

  

_To defend the innocent. To be just. To be brave._

She raises the Oathkeeper again. Swings again. The steel clashes against steel, against rotten skin, against splintered bones. With her other arm, she shoves away another undead, sends it sprawling to the ground where it shudders and shivers and struggles to its feet again, grub worms spilling out of its open mouth. Another rusting blade slides over her armor, a gush of ache splashed over her stomach like paint, and the Oathkeeper completes the swing, earning her another breath.

_To defend the innocent. To be just._

With her boot, she crashes a skull. With her knee, she separates a ribcage from a rotting chest. Teeth and nails scratch against her armor. Sweat trickles down her back. Oathkeeper gleams in the fire, heavy with rot and blood. Her arm pushes away another hungry mouth. Her blade blocks another furious strike.

_To defend the innocent._

Her back against his back. Her back against the wall. Her sword raised up again, her blood dripping down onto the ground. Another swing. Another shove. Another kick. The blade runs heavier now, runs slower. Her fist runs through a rotten body all the way to the rotten spine. Bones crunch between her fingers and beneath her feet. The fire is rising. The dead are grinning. Steel clashes against steel, against steel, against steel.

_To defend._

Sweat is trickling down, down, down. Worms are crawling up, up, up. Her arm clashes against steel. Steel clashes against her arm.

_To —_

A swing, a shove, a kick.

_To be —_

Sweat, blood.

_— just, to be —_

Pain.

_— brave._

And then — and then they are gone.

With a surge of northern wind, swords and hatchets fall out of their hands. Mouths cease to grin. Bones crumble to ashes and dust. Weapons fall with a clatter into the sea of rusted steel. Fresh snow smells only of fresh blood.

Her knees buckle. Her knees hit the ground. Oathkeeper digs deep into the snow to hold up her weight. Another gust of wind sends the ashes flying and she can taste them in her mouth. She spits them out and then she spits out blood.  

“Are you hurt,” someone is saying. The words don’t fit together quite right. “ _Brienne_. Are you hurt?”

It’s Ser Jaime. He is crouching before her, his armor more blood than it is steel. His face is bruised. His sword lies abandoned several feet away. He is holding himself up in a way that speaks of bruises and exhaustion, but not of major injuries. His eyes are frightened and wide.

“Podrick,” Brienne says. Her sword digs farther into the ground as she puts all of her weight on her arm. Her bones protest and then they oblige. The ground is unsteady beneath her feet; her feet are unsteady on the ground. Ser Jaime straightens as well, his half-aborted motion to help her up disguised nearly swiftly enough to keep her from noticing.

“Brienne,” he says again, haltingly.

She shakes her head, pushing past him and towards Podrick. Her feet are heavy and her arm refuses to bend the right way to let her put her sword in its sheath. She carries it in her limp hand, lets the blade catch on the ground and part the sea of rusted steel in its wake.

Podrick is slumped against the wall, his eyes closed.

“He’s breathing,” Ser Jaime says, just as Brienne kneels by Podrick’s side. She nods distractedly, checking for injuries and finding no major wounds.

“Podrick,” she says loudly, commanding. “Open your eyes.”

He does so nearly instantly, his gaze landing first on Ser Jaime, then on Brienne. “It’s over,” he says. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Brienne says, brushing his hair from his forehead — it’s covered in sweat and blood, but there are no cuts on his face. “It’s over.”

He smiles. “Good,” he says, his eyes falling closed again.

“We’ll get you out of here,” Brienne promises.

“Let us,” another familiar voice interjects, a tremble hidden deep beneath the steadiness of steel. “You should rest.”

It’s Lady Sansa. She is paler than the snow surrounding her, but she seems unharmed. The women standing behind her keep casting frightened glances around the courtyard, but Lady Sansa’s gaze is trained firmly on Brienne. Brienne struggles to her feet, even as Lady Sansa gestures for her to keep still.

“My Lady,” she says, “that isn’t necessary, we can —”

“We will clean the wounds,” Lady Sansa interrupts, “so that the Maesters can stitch them up. Let us help.”

“Thank you, Lady Stark,” Ser Jaime says before Brienne has a chance to open her mouth.

Lady Sansa looks at him. A small frown forms on her face, but her expression is measuring rather than hostile.

“Very well,” she says. She steps to Podrick and the women follow, helping her move him to his feet.

Just as they are about to turn away, Ser Jaime clears his throat. “My Lady,” he says quietly. “Forgive me, but… my brother?”

Lady Sansa smiles faintly. “He is uninjured, Ser Jaime,” she says. “He is helping the Maesters.”

Ser Jaime lets out a breath and closes his eyes for a moment. “Thank you, Lady Stark,” he says.

She offers a nod. “Thank you for your service,” she says, her gaze flickering between Ser Jaime and Brienne. “Both of you.”

“My Lady,” they reply as she turns away, helping to support Podrick as they make their way across the courtyard.

They watch for a moment as she orders the women following her to check on other wounded survivors, delegating them easily to the tasks. Then Brienne sighs, finally finding enough strength to sheathe her sword.

Ser Jaime is still standing by her side, watching her quietly. “You haven’t answered my question,” he says eventually. “Are you injured?”

She shrugs. Her armor feels like a part of her body now and her body consists only of a dull ache. She can’t tell if her skin is covered with blood or with sweat.

“Are you?” she asks, though she knows the answer already.

He pauses, as if it hasn’t occurred to him to consider that. “I don’t believe so,” he says after a moment.

“Good,” she says, already turning on her heel.

It seems natural that he follows; if she had any doubts that he would, she might have just requested it. He picks up his sword on the way and they walk silently through the castle, past the bodies of the dead and past the ashes scattered everywhere like snow. The halls are quiet now, filled only with the echo of their footsteps, tired and heavy and perfectly synchronized.

They make their way to Brienne’s room and find it untouched. The fire on the fireplace still hasn’t burned out, as if the battle only lasted several hours and not entire lifetimes. Half-eaten dinner is still laid out on the small table, though the sight of it turns Brienne’s stomach now. Blessedly, there is fresh water on the nightstand.

Ser Jaime steps inside, uncertain now, but he steps inside all the same, so Brienne locks the door behind him. She doesn’t want to be alone now and she imagines he doesn’t either, not when the howl of the wind in the corridor still sounds like the howl of the dead, not when the sweat dripping down her spine feels like grub worms crawling all over her skin.

She turns towards Ser Jaime and finds him standing just inside the room, his gaze, empty and haunted, trained on the open window and the night still pouring in. Brienne closes the window first, locking the shutters firmly in place, and then stirs the fire back to life until it’s sparkling again. The room is eerily quiet now, but it’s brighter, too, shadows crawling back beneath the table and beneath the bed, nearly out of sight.

Brienne stops before Ser Jaime, lifts his hand, undoes the clasps on his forearm guard, takes it off. His gaze flickers to her hands and then up to her eyes. He clears his throat.

“I can take off my own armor,” he says.

“I know,” Brienne replies simply, but she does pause, watching him until he offers a nod, his gaze shifting away again.

There is a commotion in the corridor and someone — perhaps still unsteady from the battle, perhaps already unsteady from the joy of being alive — crashes against the door. They both flinch and freeze motionless. The door remains locked. A burst of laughter follows and fades away.

Ser Jaime swallows loudly. “I keep,” he says, “I keep expecting them to, to —”

“I know,” Brienne says again, quieter this time. She removes his upper arm guard, uncovering the sleeve of his gambeson, stiff with sweat and stained with blood. She checks for broken bones. Before she can reach for the plates of armor covering his shoulders and his chest, he stops her with a hand on her wrist.

“Let me,” he says quietly and so she does, letting her other hand fall to her side.

With deft fingers, he undoes the clasps of her gauntlet and removes it, tugging it off her hand. She stretches her fingers and then folds them into a fist; they’re stiff with pain and fatigue, but otherwise uninjured. He meets her gaze again before he removes her forearm guard and then the upper arm guard, turning her hand to examine the shallow cut that runs across her arm, where her armor dug into her skin. He removes the pieces of armor covering her other hand, then, moving quickly but carefully and saying nothing of the bruises littering her skin where her gambeson and undershirt are torn.

“May I?” she asks, reaching for his golden hand. His mouth twists unhappily, but he offers a nod and so she undoes the fastenings around the stump and removes the hand, placing it carefully by the rest of the armor. He is still glaring miserably at the wall above her shoulder when she reaches for the plates of armor covering his chest. When she undoes the last of the fastenings, though, his gaze rises back to her eyes and he swallows audibly again.

She raises her eyebrows, pausing, but he offers a nod and so she helps him remove the armor and the gambeson, leaving him in nothing but his long undershirt and the plates of armor covering his legs. The undershirt is stiff with sweat, but only the sleeves are covered in blood. He swallows again, his throat working around it, and then reaches for her armor. Removing it is far more elaborate than removing his own, but he seems to have no trouble locating the clasps and the fastenings and undoing them all.

Her own undershirt clings unpleasantly to her skin, cool and stiff and moist, but she doesn’t feel self-conscious, not when they both reek of blood and sweat, not when Ser Jaime’s gaze remains reliably calm. There is a wound on the side of Brienne’s neck, shallow but throbbing with a dull ache, and he only hesitates for a moment before he tugs the collar of the undershirt away to examine it, his warm fingers pressing against her skin.

“It’s shallow,” she says, surprised when her voice comes out hoarse. “It can heal on its own.”

He nods, accepting that without comment, and steps away. Too tired to keep standing, she sits down on the edge of the bed to take off her boots and the plates of armor covering her legs. After a moment, he follows suit, sitting close enough that if she wanted, she could press her knee against his own.

They work in silence for a moment, removing their armor piece by piece until they’re sitting side by side wearing nothing but their underclothes, bare feet resting on the warm floor. Ser Jaime kicks his own armor away into a haphazard pile by the bed, but Brienne stacks hers neatly by the nightstand. She catches him watching her with a strange, fond amusement dancing in his eyes.

After a moment of simply sitting together, breathing in and out, Brienne forces herself to reach for the clean cloth she left on the nightstand, soaks it in the water from the washbowl, and passes it to Ser Jaime. He doesn’t immediately use it, though. Instead, he stays still, watching her with an expression she can’t quite read.

Then he says, “May I?”

He raises the cloth to her face, making his intentions clearer, and despite her better judgment and despite having prepared another cloth for herself, Brienne offers a nod.

This, she realizes fairly quickly, is different.

This is different because there is no armor between them now. When he shifts slightly to his side, his knee presses against hers, just two layers of stiff linen between skin and skin. This is different because his movements are different — no longer just the simple, practiced efficiency of removing pieces of armor.

She remains still as he runs the cloth over her split lip, cleaning away the blood and the dirt. He is impossibly careful with the cuts and bruises on her face, as if there really is anything left to ruin, his gaze trained steadily on her eyes. He reaches over her to wash the cloth in the washbowl and then runs the cloth over her jaw and over her neck, his gaze following the droplets of water as they travel down her marred skin and soak into the collar of her undershirt.

He swallows again and Brienne realizes that her own throat is tight as well.

“Ser Jaime,” she says, strained, though she has no idea what she wants to say next.

His gaze briefly meets her own. “Just Jaime,” he says quietly, focusing on his work again, busy with her hands now.

“Jaime,” she allows and then her mouth clicks shut again as she still doesn’t know whether she truly wants him to move away.

He looks up at her again from where he is folding up the sleeve of her undershirt to clean the cut on her forearm.

“Am I overstepping?” he asks quietly, his hand resting over the crook of her elbow.

“No,” she says after a moment. “You aren’t.”

He nods graciously and then runs the cloth over the cut on her forearm, all the way to her wrist. Only he doesn’t stop there, running the cloth over her palm and then over her fingers instead, until her skin is clean again, droplets of fresh blood rising on her bruised knuckles where the gauntlet dug in deep with every shove and every punch.

He brings that very hand to his lips.

It’s like a kiss a knight would offer a lady, except it’s her left hand, except her knuckles are bloodied and his lips are chapped and dry, except they are both still drenched in sweat. He doesn’t let go of her hand right away, either, holding it against his lips until she feels the cool of his shaky exhale, and even then he doesn’t simply drop her hand, only places it back carefully in her lap before moving on to cleaning the other one, as if nothing has happened at all.

The only difference is, he doesn’t look up at her now, focused on his work, and she finds that unacceptable. He lets her other hand rest in her lap and drops the cloth into the washbowl. He moves as if to stand up, but Brienne stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Your turn,” she says, as steadily as she can manage, and he pauses, forgetting himself long enough to look up at her. There is a strange kind of fear in his eyes, not the kind that was there during the battle or immediately after, not the kind she has seen before.

Still, he stays, and so she reaches for the clean cloth.

She tries to be efficient about it, to run the cloth over the bruised skin gently but quickly. He flinches when she is cleaning the cut on his face, so she catches his chin between her thumb and forefinger to keep him in place, barely noticing the way he stills instantly, his muscles tensing and relaxing again.

There is a split on his lip, too, and for a moment, Brienne can’t quite tear her eyes away from the shocking red of fresh blood. For a moment, she can still feel that bloody wall behind her back, can still smell decay, can still see the fire and the smoke everywhere around her. For a moment, she still can’t find him anywhere.

Except, of course, he is right here. He is right here. Tired and bruised. Alive. He is right here, watching her with a strange sort of fear that has nothing to do with battles and death and everything to do with the way their knees are still pressed together, steady and warm.

“Brienne,” he says quietly and she no longer thinks of the ashes beneath her feet, of the weight of the Oathkeeper in her hand, of death clawing at her skin. Instead, for a moment, she thinks of Jaime’s crooked, charming smile.

She shifts closer and their thighs are touching now, too. She shifts closer and she can feel his breath on her face, quick like the beating of her own heart. She shifts closer and she presses her lips against his.   

His mouth is chapped and dry, just like her own. For a moment, nothing else happens. Then he moves just a little, just enough to make it right. Her hand travels to his neck, keeping him in place. His hand travels to her jaw, guiding her through the kiss. They draw a shared breath and their lips meet again, and then there is warmth, seeping down through their tired muscles all the way to their tired bones. It’s easy — like breathing, like fighting side by side, like trusting each other with their lives.

She breaks away first, resting her forehead against his, watching him while his eyes remain closed.

He licks his lips and swallows thickly. “It really is over, isn’t it,” he says and then his eyes do open, his gaze meeting her own.

“Yes,” Brienne says simply. “As over as it ever gets.”

He smiles a little at that. His hand, resting on her neck, travels to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingertips trail lightly over the shell of her ear and then down the tendon of her neck. When his gaze meets her own again, there is a seriousness to its quiet warmth.

“It was, as always, an honor to fight by your side,” he says.

Brienne smiles. The wind is whistling in the corridor. Through the cracks in the shutters, dawn is seeping in.

“Likewise, Jaime,” she says. “Likewise.”

 

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥


End file.
